


Devil Town V2

by ghostlyfroggy



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Study, Derealization, Dissociation, Inner Dialogue, Internal Conflict, Memory Loss, Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), inspired by devil town v2, maybe give it a listen while you read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlyfroggy/pseuds/ghostlyfroggy
Summary: He did what was asked of him. He did what was asked not of him. He wrote, and wrote, shaking hands almost tearing the delicate paper as he rushed to transcribe his being into words and thoughts that disappeared as soon as they were on paper. He knew everything, and he knew nothing, and everything in between and outside the lines.Title from and work inspired by Devil Town v2 by Cavetown.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 79





	Devil Town V2

There are statements, affirmations, that one can grow to rely on, fact amongst the fiction. The sun rises every day, and sets every night. The sky is blue, the grass is green. Little things, that you brush over because you’re used to the permanence of it all, so sure you won’t wake up one day and find the skies are red, or the grass a shade of purple.  
  
There are other truths you can rely on, maybe ones not so firmly lodged in stone, but beliefs and moral compass that you turn to when things go awry. Such things form one’s identity, one’s sense of self as a whole.  
  
This had once been the case for Ranboo as well. He’d known who he was, what he’d stood for, hell, if you were to bring it up he used to be able to talk animatedly for hours on end. Used to. Not anymore.  
  
Things are rocky now. His memories are a fine ash, seeping through his fingers and leaving troublesome stains. They smear whatever he touches, leaking out of his mind and dispersing themselves elsewhere.  
  
His memories are fickle, dancing just out of reaching, laughing cruelly when he swipes feebly for him. He’d thought of ways to get around it, squeezing the ash into an ink and spilling words across pages like a boat trudging through roaring waves.  
  
At first, Ranboo had named it accordingly. His memory book, dryly named but serving its purpose. He had been a fool, still naive in his thinking to believe that he would not be taken advantage of. These people were his friends, and they had been treated as such, his book telling of his fondness of the people around him.  
  
His book, that was possibly more appropriately referred to as scarce leather scrap harshly wrapped around what was once sugarcane, went with him everywhere, his inventory always having a space carved out for its presence.  
  
After events that Ranboo can’t quite grasp at, he’d given it a more fitting name. Do Not Read. People wanted his book. Ranboo couldn’t find it in himself to scrounge for why. He knew it had something to do with Dream, and Tubbo. He was better at big events, people and their place in the world, in his world.  
  
He built himself a safe space, or at least, what appeared to be a safe space, a vault of some kind. He didn’t remember building it. It didn’t matter.  
  
The ash swirled dangerously in his mind, molded and shaped with hands that he knew, without needing anyone to tell him, weren’t his own. Time passed and he grew more agitated, he argued with himself, pleaded with himself, wailed to no one but himself.  
  
He holed himself up, played the disc in his inventory until it was seared into his mind, until he was sure that this one thing, these notes and symphonies, wouldn’t be forgotten. They left his mind as soon as the cool water that served as the exit invaded his senses.  
  
Ranboo began having migraines, or that’s what Niki had told him, a woman who was spoken highly of in his book, so he’d trusted her with little hesitance, blinking at her contentedly as the ash swirled behind his eyes.  
  
His days passed, and he lied to, or thought he lied to, or maybe told the truth to, Tubbo. They were friends, or so the book said, and they were decorating for something, or so Tubbo said. He agreed readily, he liked helping people, it left a pleasant simmering under his discolored skin.  
  
He did what was asked of him. He did what was asked not of him. He wrote, and wrote, shaking hands almost tearing the delicate paper as he rushed to transcribe his being into words and thoughts that disappeared as soon as they were on paper. He knew everything, and he knew nothing, and everything in between and outside the lines.  
  
People told him things, dire things, groundbreaking things, and he watched them smile as he asked them, confused, to repeat themselves, waving him off and telling him it wasn’t important. He agreed easily and wondered why his mind felt like it was folding in on himself.  
  
It’s an earth shattering thing to realize you can no longer trust yourself, no longer trust what is told or taught to you. It is a feeling so isolating Ranboo sometimes feels as if he is stuck in an endless void of silent noise, completely and utterly unknown to the world.  
  
He went through the motions, he woke and ate and talked to people he didn’t know and pretended he did. His brain was tearing apart at the seams, shooting pains of self betrayal and self destruction and whispers of thought that departed as soon as they arrived.  
  
He sat in his obsidian box and played a disc he didn’t know the name of and poured over scraps of leather and sugarcane and taught himself things he couldn’t forget. He forgot them anyway.  
  
Ranboo argued with people he didn’t know, words a betrayal for simply existing. He let out noises of his heritage that he’d vowed never to make again, jaw aching in a way that felt familiar and foreign in one painful mess of tangled thread.  
  
A man spoke to him, scathing words and condescending tone making his brain stagger, taunts and comforts that blanketed him in nothing but cold fear.  
  
“I’m not even real.” The man said, the voice said, and he writhed in the agony of distrust and anger and emotions he could not, for the life of him, remember the name of.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if this is a bit messy, it's quite early and this idea came to me and I just had to get it onto paper. A gentle reminder to readers who need it: you are real, those around you are real. You are safe. I love you, stay safe dear readers.


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